Regrets
by MemoriesOfBetrayal
Summary: America is on his deathbed and he's asking for England. England doesn't know how to deal. OneShot. Deathfic. USUK.


**Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia.**

**Regrets**

Rain beat on the windows heavily, the pounding sound the only thing to be heard on this night. It was dark outside – the moon was hidden behind the heavy cloud cover, the stars gone from sight, nothing but the haze of raindrops could be seen. The night was cold – freezing; small puffs of warm air rose with every breath, fading into the relative darkness of the room. The only light that entered the room originated from the alarm clock on the bedside table, red numbers biting through the darkness to read 11:58. It was late; he should have been asleep long ago so he'd be ready for his early morning. But there was no way that would happen. Not now. Maybe not ever.

England sat on the edge of his bed simply staring out at the darkness, unmoving. He was pale, emerald eyes dry, lips chapped and he was shaking slightly – from the cold or not, he had no idea and he really didn't care to consider it. He couldn't find the motivation to move under the covers, to warm himself from the frigid weather, and frankly he felt he didn't have the right to make himself comfortable. Not when there was so much suffering.

He didn't even want to consider the world outside of this room, the people just down the hallway, the horror occurring under his very roof. No, he just wanted to curl up and pretend it wasn't happening, that it couldn't ever happen and that he would exit his room in the morning to cheerful greetings and smiling faces. It was all he wanted at the moment, a world where this wasn't possible.

"France!"

"Shh _mon cher,_ there is nothing to be done."

"But-"

England zoned out the voices of France and Canada in the hallway, France offering comfort to the distraught younger nation. He hated hearing them suffering, all of them; it just made it all the more real. That was the complete opposite of what he wanted, he just wanted this to be nothing more than the worst nightmare he'd ever experienced.

After a few moments they were quiet. England sighed in relief, wondering what was happening now. He wouldn't go out though, not where it would all be even more real, where he'd be able to see the tearful Canada, France trying to hold him together without much hope of doing so in his own distraught state and America... he'd avoid him at all costs. That was the one person he wanted to avoid the most and yet the one he most wished to be beside.

"England..." That was Canada just outside his door, voice pleading. "England please come out, you don't have long left. It'll be your only chance and you know you'll regret it if you don't. Quickly, before he... it's almost time..." And he'd dissolved into sobs again, obviously trying to swallow them but unable to do so. The sound tore at England's heart, but he stayed steadfast in his resolve. "P-please England, he's asking for you."

_He's asking for you..._ He wanted to cry, to bawl and shout and scream and run to him, rush to his side and be there for him, but he did nothing. He couldn't, because as soon as he left this room, as soon as he was faced with that, he would lose it completely. He was barely holding it together now, having to see him like that would just be too much to handle.

"England please, you can't change anything. Just be there for-"

"Canada!" France's panicked shout shocked England, "Come quickly! He's stopped breathing!"

_Oh God! _England choked on his breath, the lump in his throat tightening and his heart jolting painfully. No, this couldn't be it. No, no, _no_. There was no way this was happening. He could barely hear as Canada rushed off to his brother's side, wanting nothing more to be there just as England wished he could be there. He could hear their voices talking quickly, almost incoherently, rambling and praying and begging and pleading and sobbing...

"America!"

At Canada's voice England shot up from his seat. He couldn't do this anymore, he couldn't just idly sit by while America died. He had to be there, even if it felt as though he would break, he just had to. He rushed from the room, slamming the door behind him as he ran. He was still dressed in a pair of creased slacks and a crinkled and slightly smelly shirt, both of which he'd been wearing for the last two – three? – days. But for once he didn't care. He could hear Canada sobbing loudly, Francis trying to calm him through his own tears, the two for once not even finding comfort with each other.

England burst into the room two doors down from his own, his gaze flickering over the couple that had sunk to the floor, Francis with his arms around the smaller nation for his comfort as much as the other, before green eyes landed on the prone figure on the bed.

America was pale – beyond pale, he was grey. His eyes were closed, arms by his sides, lips already turning blue. It took England a few moments to realise his chest wasn't rising. He rushed to the bedside, hands immediately grabbing for America's own and immediately noticing the rapid cooling. There was no breath, no heartbeat, nothing. England didn't know what he was feeling; anguish, grief, despair... he wasn't sure it had hit him yet. He didn't even notice the other occupants of the room had stopped to watch him; he had eyes only for America.

Slowly he raised a hand to brush over the nation's sunken cheek, trying to recall the feeling when he was warm and alive, trying to imagine that America was only sleeping. He brought his head forward to rest his forehead against America's own, examining the long lashes of his closed lids, the straight nose, the high cheekbones; the perfect features... that face that England loved to see, a face that would never be graced with a smile again...

A single tear fell from his eye and dripped down onto America's cheek. England watched it for a moment before leaning forward to kiss the rapidly cooling lips, a quick press of his own warm ones before he pulled back. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and he glanced over to see Canada, surprisingly calm despite his actions just a few moments ago, though his entire face was red and puffy from crying and there were bags under his bloodshot violet eyes. At the sight of America's brother, England broke.

Sobs wracked his body, jerking him violently as the tears broke free and cascaded down his face. His legs gave out almost immediately and he sank to the floor, Canada following his descent and sobbing yet again. Canada wrapped his arms around England as though it would hold the older nation together while anchoring himself. England turned away from America to bury his face in Canada's shoulder, immediately drenching the material there. They barely noticed when France approached and wrapped his long arms around the two of them, holding the three of them together while they grieved.

"He...he..." England forced out, "I was t-too late... He wanted me... I w-wouldn't come." His voice was nothing more than a whisper. "I'm sorry, so sorry..."

Francis only tightened his grip on the two while England continued to whisper – to Canada, America or himself he wasn't sure.

"I'm so sorry..."

_**A/N:**__ So, this was originally the first chapter to a story that I had planned. But, well, I'm lazy and I don't know if I'll ever go any further with it. I only have about half the next chapter written (granted it's a lot longer than this one) and I've had it written for a long time. Anyways, here's the first chapter/prologue/thing that I've made a one-shot (unless I decide to go back and actually continue on with the rest of the fic at some point). Thanks for reading~_

_-Memories_


End file.
